You, me and Katarina
by AnnMore
Summary: Warning: M A Benedict Cumberbatch fic. One afternoon. A model. Her best friend. Her lover. Prompted by BC's 'romance' with a model:)


'Do you like it? Or do you like _her_?' I stiffened and turned red. Katarina chuckled like a naughty little girl, and it was exactly who she was. And not because she was a model; quite on the contrary, she was _very _serious when it came to her job. And to her law studies at Oxford. She simply looked stunning in stunning clothes (in _any _clothes and _without_ clothes), and wasn't embarassed to earn money with it.

Yes, 'not embarrassed' was the key word about Katerina, as well as 'naughty.' She was all that around men. Around women, too; this was why the former worshiped her and the latter hated her with passion. I was a rare exception to this rule because, well, because I was her exact opposite. I wasn't ugly, to be sure, but I never tried to outshine her and was patient enough to put up with her whims and to discover she actually had a good heart. A naughty good girl, she was. And I was the cliche good girl - a student of the classic languages, nota bene - to be friends with the bitch of the neighbourhood. It was as true at Oxford as anywhere else.

I never asked how naughty she was at that summer party when she met Benedict. It was not necessary, as the standard answer was 'very.' She texted me at 4 a.m. incoherently: 'Big. So big.' And then: 'Hands.' There came no other messages that night, and she had me puzzled for the next six months as to what exactly this meant. Sure, I knew she was seeing this movie star - I knew nothing about at that time - and I had no illusions about the nature of their relationship. If only because she told me about it in every graphic detail. To see me blush, and I blushed very easily. Just like Benedict. I noticed this when I finally met him at Katarina's, where I stayed for a while upon returning from my Erasmus' studies abroad. And I finally saw the hands, his large, nervous hands with unbelievably long and gracious fingers. He had slant cat-like eyes I didn't dare to look into. He blinked and rubbed and tortured his flushing cheeks with pronounced cheekbones, normally so pale, when I suggested I would have a walk. It was about fifteen minutes into our chat, during which Benedict told me about the movie he was in and kept fiddling at the hem of his gray hoodie. Katarina didn't even pretend to listen and only cuddled his unruly dark curls. I knew they hadn't seen each other for a month. I sneeked outside and tried, unsuccesfully, to clear my mind of the vivid images floating before my mind's eye. The worst thing was I knew what Katarina liked, and how, and where, and how he good he was at reciprocating her wishes. I found a small neat cafe and read my Leo Strauss; I came back very late, firmly determined to shut Katarina up if she decided to narrate the details of her afternoon; fortunatelly, she was asleep. I crept under my blanket next to her and held my breath, embarassed to death. Katerina had only one, if very large, bed in her most expensive and exquisite, if very small, studio.

I don't know how Katarina decided that Benedict liked me. I had seen him three times already, and he kept himself rather aloof and respectful, flashing me an apologetical smile every time Katarina debited one of her habitual double entenders. Blushing simultaneously, we kept talking as if nothing had happened: he - about his views on the art of cinema, I - about medieval hermeneutics. Katarina, in her turn, smiled indulgently, as if witnessing two toddlers at play. Except we were merely keeping appearances. I kept imagining that they would probably be having rough sex the very moment I left them alone. And I wondered what would the two of us be doing without Katarina.

One afternoon, Katerina decided to give me a show. She had received her bonus clothes from the fashion house she worked for. We had a good laugh; I thought she was the most gorgeous woman I ever saw, and very funny. I knew how rare this combination was. I did wonder at times what she and Benedict had in common, when they didn't make love. Did they talk between craving stares? Such moments made me realize that you and Katarina didn't need to have anything in common; she filled some void in you, her presence was comfortable and self-sufficient. One could bask in her radiance and

I didn't even notice Benedict before Katarina asked me to fetch her favorite yellow scaft which, quite miraculously, matched her every outfit. She had wrapped it around the door handle. There he stood, at the door, rather ill at his ease. I stared at him incredulously, Katarina laughted, as it seemed, at both of us and prompted: 'Hey c'mon! Where is my scarf? Benedict, you can watch. I need you both!'

Benedict cracked a goofy face; I giggled. Katarina called me back and waved Benedict towards the bed. A moment later, Benedict had installed himself, wisely enough, at a safe distance from the scattering of the precious garments on the bed cover. We could see ourselves in the enormous mirror, and it was probably the strangest moment I had ever had in my life. I saw Benedict, in his torn-up jeans and a vaguely blue washed-out shirt, myself, in an equally plain blouse and old jeans, with my knees pulled up to my chin, looking like a shushed schoolgirl. In the mean time, Katarina the Great, the Gorgeous, had got rid off her tiny black jacket and a matching blouse and was already fitting something else. We were watching her, an awkward silence strechting between us, and laughing with Katarina's jokes. I felt myself an intruder. At the same time, I somehow felt that Benedict was anxious to put me at my ease, but in the result we both were exactly that - anxious. Only Katarina wasn't. 'Will you help me with this?' Katarina was looking at me.


End file.
